


Paris State of Mind

by speakingwosound (sev313)



Category: Tennis RPF
Genre: Canon Universe, First Time, M/M, Musicians
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-07
Updated: 2017-09-07
Packaged: 2018-12-17 03:56:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,163
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11843487
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sev313/pseuds/speakingwosound
Summary: If Pierre weren't a tennis player, he'd be a musician.  Nico doesn't see why he can't be both.





	Paris State of Mind

**Author's Note:**

  * For [polkadot](https://archiveofourown.org/users/polkadot/gifts).



> This was written for the [2017 Rare Pairs](http://rarepairfest.livejournal.com/) Challenge.
> 
> Unless otherwise noted, Nico and Pierre are speaking French.
> 
> This fic starts with this [this video](https://www.google.com/url?sa=t&rct=j&q=&esrc=s&source=web&cd=1&cad=rja&uact=8&ved=0ahUKEwjD9vv8nOLVAhUK4IMKHf4DAy8QtwIIKDAA&url=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.youtube.com%2Fwatch%3Fv%3DWBv6-XvduQY&usg=AFQjCNEAzbO2ftY3XJ9OFHACALGWIZfTFw) of Pierre singing at an official Davis Cup dinner. It started this whole thing, so, go and watch. It's worth it - promise ;)

It starts with a bet.

That’s not quite right.

It starts with Pierre’s nerves.

"I need five," Jo calls across the net, nodding his head toward the water cooler. He waits for Nico to join him, before saying, "I wasn’t thirsty," as if it wasn’t obvious.

Jo holds out a small paper triangle of water and Nico takes it as he tries not to roll his eyes. "No shit."

"You need to cool your boy down," Jo threatens, draining his own paper triangle so he can turn his back to fill it again.

"He can’t read your lips," Nico sighs. "And he’s not my boy."

Jo does roll his eyes. "You brought him. He’s your responsibility."

The hairs on the back of Nico’s neck bristle. He tells himself to calm the fuck down. "He’ll be fine."

"Look, I get it, he’s good, raw talent and all that. But he’s not gonna get the chance to show it if he can’t stand on his own two feet."

As if to illustrate, there’s a commotion at the net and Nico looks over to see Pierre sprawled out on the grass.

Pierre holds up his racquet. "I’m fine. Grass snake."

Nico chuckles. Jo rolls his eyes again.

"We should probably alert the LTA," Nico calls back.

"It’s the right thing to do," Pierre agrees lightly, although his eyes are on Jo and his cheeks are stained red in embarrassment.

Nico had fought hard to get Pierre included on the French team, and Pierre knows it. It’s his first Davis Cup tie, and Nico understands how much his country means to him. It's overwhelming. Enemy soil, an uncomfortable surface, and a surging and inspired British squad aren’t helping much. 

Pierre needs a distraction.

"Why don’t we make this a little more interesting, hmm?" He suggests.

***

Pierre makes good on the bet during the official pre-tie dinner.

"Didn’t know he could get _more_ nervous," Jo observes, as they watch Pierre weave his way to the podium through the tables of tennis players. "But at least he’s not nervous about tennis anymore."

Richard leans closer, his elbows on the table, grinning from ear to ear. "This is going to be priceless."

Nico shushes them both. 

"Oh, so this is a moment to capture?" Richard teases.

"Yes," Nico says easily, stripping out of his suit jacket and rising to get a better angle on his phone.

"I’m really sorry," Pierre says immediately when he gets the microphone. They’re a rich meal and a few glasses of wine in, but he’s still mostly put-together, his tie on straight and his jacket unbuttoned but hugging his shoulders. He gives a small, apologetic grimace, "but if I don’t do, it’s not a, ahh, first speech. So, I have to sing." 

It takes him a moment to find the lyrics and the rhythm, but Pierre is a born entertainer and he settles in with an uncanny mix of self-deprecation and careful confidence. It’s not so different, really, to the way he plays tennis, and Nico hasn’t stopped, yet, feeling a surge of warmth every time they step on court. He's not about to stop now.

As if Nico needed any more feelings where Pierre is concerned.

The song ends too quickly, but it did its work. Pierre is noticeably calmer as he rejoins their table, waving off the catcalls from the Brits and sheepishly accepting backslaps from his own team. 

His cheeks are flushed by the time he gets to Nico, biting at his lip as if he’s awaiting judgment, and Nico reaches out to adjust Pierre’s tie. "You’re full of surprises, huh?"

Pierre laughs, his chest moving under Nico’s hands. "Good surprises, I hope."

He’s so young, and Nico swallows as he promises, "good surprises," a little more breathless than he meant to, more breathless than he’s allowed to be. He takes a step back, holding up his phone. "I can show you, right after I send this to my entire contacts list."

Pierre groans. 

***

Nico doesn’t think about it much after that as they’re thrown headlong into the relentless US hard court season. A week in Montreal, a week in Cincinnati, a week of US Open prep in Flushing Meadows.

But when they arrive in New York, Pierre throws a long, pear-shaped bag on top of their luggage cart.

"What’s this?" Nico asks.

"Hmm?" Pierre is at the front desk, checking them in. His English is better than Nico’s - or, at least, he’s more willing to test it - and he blinks as he struggles to recognize Nico’s French. Then he blushes.

Interesting.

"I don’t remember seeing this in Cincinnati," Nico pushes.

"We weren’t sharing a suite," Pierre says. Then, "it’s my guitar."

"Your _guitar_?"

Pierre shrugs, and turns back to the front desk.

"Your guitar," Nico repeats, pulling up memories of Pierre standing in front of their Davis Cup squad, singing _Les Champs-Élysées_ in perfect honeyed pitch. "You know, now that you’ve brought it, you have to play it."

Pierre glances back at him, his cheeks still flushed, his eyes dark and unreadable. "If we win."

Nico files that look away to contemplate later. "Good incentive, then."

"The Trophy’s not enough?"

Nico shrugs. "The bragging rights would be pretty great."

"And the money."

"Sure, sure." Nico waves him off. "But, this tournament it’s all about the music."

Pierre starts singing under his breath.

***

The Bryans go out in the first round and with them their stranglehold on the Slams' doubles trophies.

Nico and Pierre make it to the third round, by the skin of their teeth.

"That was close," Pierre breathes out, collapsing onto the benches in the locker room. He’s letting their opponents get first crack at the showers, the consolation prize for having lost the final set in a tiebreak.

"Too close," Nico agrees, sitting next to Pierre, their shoulders brushing in the chill air conditioning. He’s covered in sweat, but so is Pierre, and he can’t bring himself to pull away. "I think a close call like this deserves a little reward."

Pierre rolls his neck so he’s looking up at Nico, his lashes long against his cheeks. He looks exhausted. "What kind of reward?"

Nico shrugs, trying to sound casual as he suggests, "you could sing a little something. A reminder of what we’re playing for."

Pierre rolls his eyes, and Nico’s close enough that he sees the whites.

"My dad used to say, if I did that too much, my eyes would get stuck in the back of my head."

"And you believed him?"

"I was a kid."

"A gullible kid."

"Maybe." Nico shrugs, and Pierre’s head moves with him. "Maybe I still am."

Pierre snorts, pushing away from Nico’s shoulder. "I’m not going to sing to you."

"Why not?" Nico frowns, and tries to make it look like he’s affronted by the lack of singing, not the loss of Pierre’s warmth along his side.

"What’s the point of having an incentive for winning if I cave in the third round?"

Nico sighs. "Why do you have to be so mature all the time?"

"One of us has to be." He bends to dig through his locker, coming up with two towels and a large bottle of shampoo. "Showers?"

Nico swallows. "Showers," he agrees.

***

When they get back to their suite, Pierre brings the guitar out from his bedroom, resting it against the coffee table.

"Caving?" Nico asks. "I thought you were stronger than that."

"I am," Pierre challenges. "I don’t know about you, though."

Nico is a little in awe of Pierre’s self-control. Nico’s never quite mastered that.

It works, though. Nico isn’t sure if it’s just this tournament, or the way the heat makes the ball bounce favorably through the air, or the familiarity that’s building thick and strong between them. Maybe it’s the damn guitar.

Either way, they sail through the fourth round, then the quarters, then the semis. Straight sets, all of them.

"We’ve done this before," Pierre admits the night before the Final, quiet enough for Nico’s ears alone. "I didn’t think I’d still be so nervous."

They’re laying on the fluffy white carpet in their suite, all the lights turned off so they can see the vastness of New York spread out below them. It feels big, bigger than Paris, bigger than Melbourne, millions of windows and street lamps and neon signs, all lit up in challenge.

Nico’s already lost in Paris. He’s already lost in Melbourne. He doesn't want to lose here, too.

"New York’s our kinda town," he says.

Pierre snorts. "New York is not our kind of town."

"Hey," Nico rises onto an elbow, glaring down at Pierre, whose eyes are still closed against the enormity of their task tomorrow. "I can hang."

Pierre laughs, his chest rising under his hand. "With who?"

"With-" Nico waves his hand, but the gesture is lost. "I don’t know, with whoever actually lives in this God-Forsaken cement wasteland."

Pierre opens one eye, reaching up to pat Nico’s shoulder. "Stick with the cows and the wine, hmm? And maybe, when this is over, I’ll let you bring the trophy to Switzerland and show you what a real town is like."

Nico lets his shoulder drop, falling back so their heads fit together again. Pierre’s hand slips to his chest, and he doesn’t move it. "I’d only miss France," he sighs.

"Yeah," Pierre admits, his breath dropping, low and even.

Nico turns his head. "Still nervous?"

Pierre doesn’t answer. His chest is shifting with each small, snuffled inhale.

Nico looks back up at the ceiling and counts Pierre’s breathes.

***

The match ends on a 13-shot rally.

Finally, Pierre volleys the ball into the pocket, right down the line, and Nico watches it bounce once, twice impotently on the court before he falls to his back.

Everything stops around him. The roar of the crowd dulls in his ears. The heat of the court fizzles under his back. The aches in his shoulder and his hip fade away.

He can’t even feel his own heartbeat as time stands still.

And then there’s a rush of heat, a warm, familiar voice, and Nico opens his eyes. 

Pierre is there. Pierre is the only one there.

Pierre rushes into all of Nico’s senses, and Nico wants to touch him, hear him, smell him. He lets himself be dragged up and pulled into a hug that he never wants to end.

***

Everything’s pretty much a blur after that.

There’s a series of interviews, mostly, thank god, in French.

There’s a press conference that’s half in French, half in English. Nico lets Pierre handle the English half.

He’s still having a hard time focusing on anything that isn’t Pierre. Pierre’s hair is mussed from a quick, half-assed shower and the nervous way he runs his hair through it in front of the press. Pierre’s voice is soft, getting a little raspy around the edges as the night wears on. Pierre’s eyes are big, and they widen every time they catch Nico’s, as if just Nico’s presence manages to surprise him, over and over again.

After the press conference, their parents are there, pulling them into tearful hugs and a dinner halfway across the city.

It’s a fancy restaurant, with chandeliers and white table clothes.

"Ready to spend some of those winnings?" Pierre’s brother, Gabriel, rubs his hands together. "I can already taste the steak."

Pierre’s eyebrows furrow as he looks down at his Lacoste hoodie and navy sweatpants. 

Nico presses his hand to Pierre’s lower back. "We’re Grand Slam champions-" he murmurs.

Pierre shivers.

"I think we’ve got this," Nico adds, nodding to their matching ensembles. "Just look like you belong, and you will."

Pierre looks up at him. He’s grinning again. "You need to stop picking up self-help books at the dentist."

"That was one time."

"One time too many."

"Normally, your words would hurt." Nico leans towards him, leering. "But I’m unstoppable tonight."

Pierre spreads his fingers around Nico’s face and pushes him away, laughing.

***

"To winning." Nico holds up his tequila shot.

Gabriel mirrors him, adding, "to my brother no longer being a loser," before tipping back his shot.

Pierre’s hand stumbles as he raises his glass and Nico bumps his shoulder. "Hey, you’re young. You had years of losing ahead of you before you became pathetic."

Pierre presses his shoulder closer. "Like you, you mean?"

"Exactly." Nico motions for another round. He holds up his newly full glass. "To not being the guy who _loses_ three Slams. No one likes that guy."

"I don’t know," Pierre argues, pausing with the glass at his lips. "I kinda like rejects."

Nico snorts. "Who pulled who out of obscurity?"

Pierre finishes off his shot before correcting him. "You pulled me out of Tokyo. I was almost Top 100."

"And see where you are now?" When the rankings come out on Monday, Pierre’s going to be Top 10. Nico’s chest tightens just thinking about it. "That’s all due to me, baby."

Around them, the club is loud. It’s a place Gabriel recommended and it’s a little more modern and metropolitan than either Pierre or Nico would normally go for. It’s fine - Gabriel’s distracted by the sequined women and Nico’s distracted by Pierre.

"Yeah, it is," Pierre agrees, his voice dropping. That last shot pushed him over the edge into earnestness. "No matter what happened today, I still owe you everything."

Pierre swallows. Nico can’t look away.

"And I still would have liked you. Three Slam losses or not."

Nico laughs. "That’s very gracious of you."

"That, I did not learn from you."

"Hey." Nico pushes him away, affronted. Pierre is wobblier than Nico expected, though, and he bounces against a guy three times his size. Nico catches his elbow, pulling him close. "Ready to get outta here? You still have a bet to make good on, in case you forgot."

Pierre sobers immediately. Or, tries to. His shoulders stiffen and his body tries to follow, but he’s too loose and wet with alcohol to manifest his nerves physically.

Nico orders a bottle of cognac to go, and calls them a taxi.

Pierre doesn’t relax in the car and he doesn’t relax in the elevator up to their suite. For the umpteenth time that night, he looks younger than he deserves to. Which is ridiculous. If anyone won a Slam tonight, it’s Pierre. He deserves all the credit for maintaining his reflexes under pressure when Nico, himself, was struggling just to serve a legal ball.

He opens his mouth to tell Pierre that, but Pierre turns his back to open their door and without turning around, says, "I was kinda hoping you’d forgotten about this."

Nico scoffs. "We won a Slam so I can hear you play the guitar. You’re not backing out now." 

Pierre’s shoulders tighten even more and he crosses over to the couch, finally pulling the guitar out of its case and into his lap. It settles across his knees, not as familiar as his racquet but close. Nico’s not sure how he only found out about this _two weeks ago_.

"What are you going to play?" Nico settles onto the carpet, leaning back against Pierre’s legs.

Pierre strums absently. "I don’t know. I don’t know many songs."

"I don’t believe you."

Pierre huffs and stops playing. "You have too much faith in me."

"No such thing." Nico leans his head back so he can look up at Pierre. His fingers are long and smooth on the strings, his face looser than it was a few moments ago. Nico’s voice betrays him. "You surpass my expectations every time."

Internally, Nico flinches, but Pierre’s face softens and he starts strumming again.

It takes him a long time to build into it, and Nico closes his eyes again by the time he recognizes the chords.

When Pierre finally sings, it’s soft, accented, filling the quiet of the room with so much less effort than he fills a tennis court.

_Some folks like to get away,_  
Take a holiday from the neighborhood  
Hop a flight to Miami Beach or to Hollywood  
But I’m taking a Greyhound on the Hudson River line  
I’m in a New York state of mind 

He hums for a few more beats, before he stops playing, dropping his hand into Nico’s hair. "That’s all I know."

Nico chuckles a little wetly. He’s limp against Pierre’s legs as 33 years of stress leak out of his body.

"Nico?"

Nico swallows. "Billy Joel wouldn’t have been my choice, but we can’t all have good taste."

He opens his eyes in time to see Pierre roll his eyes.

"Taylor Swift is not 'good taste.'"

"Hey," Nico protests. "Step off Tay Tay."

Pierre shakes his head, making to put his guitar aside. Nico surges onto his knees, catching his wrists.

"We’re not done yet."

Pierre freezes. He licks his lips. "I thought- I mean, it was just a stupid bet. You don’t need to suffer through any more of that."

"No one’s suffering here."

"I’m suffering."

"Well, I don’t care about that." Nico turns back around, settling back against Pierre’s legs. "A voice like yours shouldn’t be locked away. Keep playing."

Pierre flushes all the way down the open v-neck of his sweatshirt. He swallows. "Do you really think-?" He stops himself. "Never mind." 

"Keep playing."

"Okay, okay. Patience is a virtue. You could learn some," Pierre grumbles, but he settles back into the couch and picks up his guitar.

***

The guitar becomes a staple on the tour.

They fly directly from their final's loss in Metz to Tokyo, and Pierre shows up at the airport in a sleepy, over-sized blue hoodie with the guitar slung over his back.

"That’ll be extra," the check-in lady eyes the guitar warily.

Pierre blinks. It’s very early in the morning.

Nico pulls his card out of his wallet. "No problem."

She looks from Nico to Pierre, something suspicious and curious in the raise of her eyebrow. It doesn’t keep her from grabbing his card though.

"Thanks," Pierre tells him as they settle in the waiting area, speaking around a yawn.

"You owe me a few songs," Nico warns him.

Pierre hums, dropping his head to Nico’s shoulder.

***

Nico’s full on Ramen, still too jet-lagged to know if it’s too early or too late to be awake, when he remembers the promise he extracted.

"I never actually agreed to that," Pierre complains, but he pulls his guitar from his bedroom and settles onto the floor in front of the couch. Pierre’s back’s been bothering him a bit, and Nico makes sure not to jostle him too hard as he sits on the floor across from him. He taps Pierre’s ankle and leaves his foot there.

"How 'bout a good pop song?"

"'Good' and 'pop' is an oxymoron." 

"Big word for a growing boy."

Pierre puffs out his chest. In the twelve months they’ve been playing together Pierre’s gotten stronger. He’s still long and thin, but his shoulders have widened and his legs have muscles they never had before. For a moment, Nico can’t look away, but then Pierre chokes on the breath he’s holding and his shoulders collapse, his posture rounding out as he laughs.

Nico shakes his head. "This is why I can’t take you anywhere."

"Not fit for public," Pierre agrees, starting to strum an old French folk song.

He’s getting better. His fingers are more sure, his posture open and loose as he closes his eyes and sings. His voice is more beautiful than Nico remembers, as if Nico can’t quite keep that kind of perfection in his memory.

Again, he finds himself not able to look away. That’s been happening a lot more often in recent months.

"Okay?" Pierre asks, his voice quiet, and it takes Nico a moment to realize that Pierre’s stopped playing.

"Yeah." He swallows. "You know, you might not be fit for public, but if you ever wanted- your voice is acceptable. If you ever wanted to, I don’t know, plan a gig or something."

Pierre laughs. "Don’t be ridiculous."

"I’m not."

Pierre looks thoughtful for a second, but then he bends his knee, letting it fall over Nico’s, comfortable and loose. "Well, I’d rather keep this between us, if it’s all the same to you."

Nico wants to argue, but his stomach is warm and Pierre’s knee is distracting. He holds up his hands. "It’s your voice, your choice."

"Thanks for granting me that privilege," Pierre deadpans.

"No problem." Nico agrees graciously.

Pierre rolls his eyes and keeps playing.

***

"I don’t know." Jo frowns down at his phone. "Google maps says it should be right here."

Nico turns 360 degrees, surveying the awnings covered in Mandarin characters. None of them look like the characters in the restaurant name Gaël had recommended. 'Best dumplings in town,' Gaël had promised. Nico would like some dumplings. His stomach would like some, too.

"I hate Shanghai," Jo groans. "Let’s just eat wherever, I honestly don’t care what it is at this point."

Nico motions towards the end of the block. "That place looks crowed. Always a good sign."

"Sure. Fine. Great." Jo huffs, already walking again.

Nico jogs to catch up, then stops. "Just a sec."

"What?" Jo turns around. "I’m hungry."

"This’ll be quick," Nico promises as he ducks into the guitar shop.

Jo follows him, his stomach growling audibly. The proprietor looks up to glare at them. Nico grins back at him, and leads Jo to the back of the shop.

"I’m really, really hungry," Jo repeats as if, maybe, Nico just hadn’t heard him.

"Self-discipline is a tennis player’s greatest attribute," Nico says distractedly, already scanning the shelves of sheet music. They’re ordered in a way that he doesn’t quite understand.

"Not me," Jo argues. "I only play tennis so I can eat more."

Finally, Nico finds the Ss, and pulls out the book for _1989_. He pulls it out with a grin. "Found it."

Jo raises an eyebrow.

"It’s a present," Nico explains, as he heads back to the front and the frowning proprietor. "For Pierre."

"Pierre doesn’t like Taylor Swift."

Nico doesn’t stop grinning. He pulls a handful of coins out of his pocket and hands them over. "You caught me. I’m kinda tired of folk songs, so, really, it’s more a present for me."

"You are a horrendous gift giver."

"Am not. I’m a wonderful gift giver. He’ll thank me later."

"Like I thanked you for that bobblehead last Christmas."

"That bobblehead was amazing."

"It was a Gaël bobblehead."

"Yeah, and it was awesome."

Jo’s stomach growls again. "I don’t care about this conversation anymore. Feed me."

Nico laughs, and leads them back out onto the street.

When he presents Pierre with the book later, he doesn’t call it a horrible gift. 

He does roll his eyes, though, and toss it into his empty suitcase.

At least he didn’t throw it away, Nico figures. Small victories.

***

"You can’t- I can’t play in front of _people_ ," Pierre hisses.

His voice is low enough not to carry down the hallway into their living room. Paris is their home Masters, but Nico thought about it for barely a minute before he offered to get their usual suite, rather than staying in his apartment. Nico’s apartment is starting to feel lonely without Pierre’s gentle snuffling.

The suite might have helped Nico sleep better, but it wasn’t enough to overcome the pressure and expectation of playing at home.

They lost their first match.

Now half the French team is in the living room, clambering to hear Pierre play. 

"They just wanna help," Nico tells him. "Besides, you play in front of me."

"You’re not people."

"I’m offended."

"You shouldn’t be." Pierre shrugs. "I just don’t like- When I play, everyone’s looking at me."

Nico raises an eyebrow. "That’s kind of the point."

Pierre sighs in exasperation.

"And stop lying to yourself. You’re a born performer, on the court, on the stage. Didn’t you tell that reporter last week that you wanted to be an actor?"

Pierre shuffles his feet. "That’s different."

"Not really."

"Born performer, huh?"

"If we lose this tournament, maybe not."

"Nah." Pierre shakes his head, losing the battle with the smile tugging at the corner of his lips. "Can’t take it back now."

"If you’re going to hold me to everything I say, this partnership isn’t going to last very long."

Pierre wrinkles his nose. "This is the longest relationship of my life. I feel pretty good about its odds."

Nico’s chest tightens. Lately, he’d been thinking- well, it doesn’t matter what he’s been thinking. The way Pierre smiles at him sometimes, like Nico could reach the moon if he only tried. The way Pierre is always watching him, his eyes dark and unreadable even as he reads Nico like an open book. The way Nico’s stomach twists and flips at the oddest times, like when Pierre pushes him aside so he can spit in the bathroom sink or when Pierre burns their breakfast omelets.

Nico pushes it all away. This is his longest relationship, too, and he’s not about to risk it for, what? A hook-up. A confession that Pierre doesn’t - could never - reciprocate?

Nico is pretty self-destructive. He’s not that self-destructive.

"If you feel that strongly about it," he says, instead, "then get out there and take one for the team."

"I hate you."

"You really don’t."

"With that face?" Nico squeezes Pierre’s cheeks between his fingers. "Never."

Pierre pushes him away. "Okay, okay, you win, get off me, you oaf."

Nico takes a moment to compose himself, then he follows Pierre back into the living room.

Pierre already has his guitar on one knee. He’s tapping the other to an old French folk rhythm.

Richard wolf-whistles. Jo catcalls. Gaël gets up to dance.

Nico catches Pierre’s eyes over them all and smiles.

***

London is a whirlwind.

When they started this partnership 12 months ago, the World Tour Finals felt like a pipe dream. Something they could target in a few years, once they settled in, figured each other out, started winning.

As with everything with Pierre, though, it had been so easy. After the two weeks of the Australian Open, Nico was already more comfortable with Pierre than he had been within partner over the course of his career. 

It was probably too much to ask for, though, to do more than make it to London.

They lose their first match in three.

They win their second, but lose their third.

"Next year we’ll make it out of the round robin," Nico promises. They’re lying on the floor of their suite again, in deference to Nico’s aching back. The carpet is mottled brown and green. Nico misses the white shag rug from New York.

"Next year we’ll win it all," Pierre corrects.

"Look at you, seeing the glass half full. I am having a positive effect on you after all."

"Oh, that reminds me-" Pierre scrambles to his feet. He grabs his guitar and sits back on the carpet cross-legged, his knees resting against Nico’s arm. "I, um, learned something. For you. It’s not very good yet, but-"

Pierre strums the opening cords of _Welcome to New York_ , then launches into the chorus.

Nico squeezes his eyes shut, his stomach burning, as he stops breathing.

Pierre only knows the chorus, and he stumbles a bit on the last line before he trails off.

Nico’s never heard anything so wonderful in his life.

He rolls to his side, resting his chin on Pierre’s knee. "You’re right, I’m a terrible influence."

Pierre flushes under Nico’s chin. "It’s awful. I know."

"It’s magnificent. Play it again."

Pierre plays it again.

***

 

"Welcome to the first day of the 2016 Australian Open. Nick McCarvel here with last year’s runners up, Nicolas Mahut and Pierre-Hugues Herbert. Guys, how does it feel to be back?"

"Is good." Nico switches his brain into English, gears a little rusty from disuse over the off-season. "Is very different than last year."

"Right, last year the Open was your first tournament together, no?"

Pierre shakes his head. "We win one Challenger before, but, mostly yes."

"Tell me exactly how you came together. Because Nico, you’ve been around for awhile?"

"A minute, oui," Nico agrees.

"He turn Pro before I was born, no?" Pierre asks, as innocently as he can as he flushes.

"You were born. Just," Nico grumbles, then, "I was partners with Michaël Llodra, few years back. Then he had an injury and had to stop."

Next to him, Pierre’s body tightens. He crosses his arms across his chest, leaning back, away from both Nico and Nick.

Nico glances at him, but they’re recording, so he can’t do more than press his knee against Pierre’s as he continues. "I knew I wanted to team up with a Frenchman and I had been watching Pierre for a few years. He was young, just entering the Top 100, but I knew he could be the best in the world in a year or two." Nico chuckles. "Turns out he did not need the time."

Pierre presses his knee tightly against Nico’s.

"I’d say not," Nick agrees. "In your first year, you made the finals here, then you won your first Slam together at the US Open."

"My first Slam," Nico corrects him, more for Pierre’s benefit than the camera’s.

Nick nods. "Right, right. That kind of success in the first year has to be unprecedented. How do you want to build on that this year?"

Nico shrugs, and Pierre leans forward, his elbows on his knees. "We want to compete at all the Slams. If we can make London again, that would be an ultimate goal, but it’s a long season and there are so many great doubles pairs."

"Pierre’s being modest." Nick glances down at his tablet. "Okay, so, we have a couple of questions from fans on Twitter. I’m going to ask them now, if that’s okay?"

"We’ll try to answer accurately," Pierre promises.

"First question, from Twitter fan @PHH4EVA-"

Nico laughs. Pierre elbows him in the ribs. Nico makes an exaggerated pained face at the camera.

" - is for Pierre. What’s your favorite thing about working with Nico?"

"That’s hard," Nico whistles.

"No, it’s easy," Pierre argues, brushing his hair out of his eyes. "Nico is very kind with me and he knows me really, really well. And, the big thing, is he makes me laugh a lot."

Nico drops his head, blinking to stop from feeling too much on camera. Pierre side eyes him, spreading his arm along the back of the couch, brushing surreptitiously against Nico’s shoulder.

"The next question is from @FrenchTennisFan27. 'What are you doing for your birthday?' I think this one’s for Nico, since his birthday’s in a few days."

Nico clears his throat, forcing a grin that becomes genuine quickly enough as he turns to Pierre. "I don’t know. What are we doing for my birthday?"

Pierre points at his chest. "Is that my job? To plan something?"

"Yes."

"Oh." Pierre raises an eyebrow and shrugs at Nick. "I guess I have some planning to do. Ask me again in a couple days."

Nick laughs. "We expect an update on that one. Okay, last question, from @SamHeartsTennis, 'what do you like to do in your free time?'"

"I do normal, boring things. Like nap." Nico points at Pierre. "But Pierre has a secret hobby."

"It’s not secret." Pierre picks at the edge of his shorts, where their legs are pressed together. "I play the guitar. A little."

"He’s being modest. He’s brilliant."

"No, no, that’s not true."

"It is," Nico promises the camera. "I hope you can hear him someday. It’s worth it."

Nick grins. "Oh, will we get to hear you?"

"No," Pierre says, as quickly as he can. "I’m not- I’m mediocre, at best. I don’t play in public."

Nico shrugs.

Pierre pinches his shoulder.

"Well, there you have it folks. Two of the best doubles players in the world. Good luck, guys."

"Thank you," they chorus.

Pierre waits for the camera light to turn red before he rounds on Nico and starts speaking in rapid, clipped French. "You," he says, pushing his index finger into Nico’s chest and punctuating each word with a push, "are such an ass."

"What?" Nico asks, wounded. "All I did was tell the people how good you are."

Pierre shakes his head. "Now the whole world thinks I’m some kind of guitar genius or something."

"Not the whole world," Nico says, "only the people who watch the ATP YouTube Channel. How many people can that really be?"

"Enough to be embarrassing."

"I know how we can solve this."

"No."

"Wait till you hear what I’m suggesting."

"I know what you’re going to suggest."

"We should post a video of you playing, let the people settle this."

"See, no, I knew exactly what you were going to suggest. My no still stands."

"You’re not any fun."

"Whatever." Pierre stands, holding out his hand to pull Nico up. "I need lunch. You coming?"

"I still think it’s a good idea," Nico grumbles, as he follow Pierre.

***

Pierre, it turns out, doesn’t throw Nico a birthday party.

He does, however, throw Nico a 'we lost in the third round of a Slam we almost won last year' commiseration party.

Or, at least, a dinner.

Pierre finds a French bistro a short Uber ride from the hotel. It’s cliché, with red and white-checkered table clothes and a statue of a French waiter by the front door. Jo takes a picture of them both hamming it up with the waiter and posts it on Instagram before either of them can stop him.

"We’re never living that down," Nico wraps an arm around Pierre’s shoulders. 

Pierre shrugs under Nico’s body. "At least we’re in it together."

"I should have posted this conversation," Jo rolls his eyes, pushing ahead to get them a table big enough for the entire French contingent, "it’s much juicier."

"Please don’t." Pierre elbows Nico’s side, urging him to agree.

"I have a better idea," Nico says, instead. "In fact, I’m making this announcement now, while we can all remember it. This is my one birthday wish."

"Now that winning the Open is out of the picture," Richard says, his voice just low enough for them to hear.

Nico raises an eyebrow at Pierre. "Why did we invite him?"

Pierre leans closer. "We didn’t. He just kinda tagged along, like a stray dog."

"Hmm." Nico purses his lips as they follow Jo to their table. "I guess he can stay."

"Very generous of you."

"Thank you." Nico taps his temple against Pierre’s. "I learned that from you."

Pierre pinches his side and Nico yelps.

"That was uncalled for."

"That was preemptive."

Jo orders a case of wine, "I’m going to need this," before fixing them with his best glare. "What was your one birthday wish?"

"Well, Pierre here has promised his adoring fans that he’s an excellent guitar player."

"Nico promised," Pierre interrupts.

Nico ignores him. "All they need is proof."

"Now that," Jo leans back in his chair, a glass already held gracefully in his hand, "we can do."

***

"Um, so," Pierre leans closer, clearing his throat in Nico’s ear. They’re a bottle of wine in, each, and his breath smells like grapes and alcohol. "If this goes horribly wrong, will you promise not to post it?"

Nico widens his eyes. "Are you-? Is this-? I didn’t actually think you’d do it."

Pierre shrugs, pushing back his chair. "A challenge is a challenge. Besides, it’s the least I can do for your birthday, after the way I played this afternoon."

"Hey," Nico grabs for Pierre’s wrist, wrapping his fingers around it. He can feel the quick thump of Pierre’s heartbeat through the pad of his thumb. "I support you making a fool of yourself in the name of a good bet, but, just, we both had off days, yeah?"

Pierre leans into Nico’s touch and for one long, breath-holding moment, Nico thinks Pierre’s going to do something stupid like pull Nico closer. Then Pierre shakes his wrist out of Nico’s grip and the moment passes. "You’re getting soft in your old age."

Pierre laughs, low and nervous, barely audible under the cheers and whistles from the rest of the team as he makes his way to the band playing in the corner of the restaurant. He has a quick whispered conversation with the lead singer, and then Pierre’s adjusting the guy’s guitar over his shoulder and shifting uncomfortably in front of the microphone.

"I’m doing this for my friend and partner. He’s old and tone deaf, but it’s his birthday, so please excuse me while I humor him. I promise this will be over quickly."

The room laughs.

Pierre adjusts the guitar, his fingers bending around his tennis callouses to form the first chord of _Joyeux Anniversaire_. Nico watches through the lens of his phone camera as, slowly, Pierre settles in to the microphone and the guitar and the cheers from the diners. 

For one brief, illuminating moment, Nico thinks that Pierre was meant for the stage.

Nico had thought- He had hoped, maybe, that Pierre was meant for him. They’ve only been playing together for a year, but Nico’s been watching him for years, waiting for him to develop into the player he needed Pierre to be. And, in turn, Pierre has taught Nico the difference between wanting to believe and actual belief. With Pierre on court with him, everything feels possible. The US Open. Wimbledon. The #1 Ranking. A relationship - a friendship, a brotherhood, slipping into something more - that Nico never imagined he’d be able to have. Not until long after he retires.

Nico allowed himself to believe that anything is possible.

That’s Nico’s fault. He takes the blame for allowing his thoughts to run wild over all the dark, hollowed out parts of Nico’s life that he’d grown accustomed to before Pierre barreled into his life.

Jo leans across the table, his voice low and teasing, pulling Nico out of his thoughts. "You better be careful, that guy wants your boy."

On stage, Pierre finishes. He’s blushing and stammering to the crowd as he hands the guitar back.

Nico stops the recording. "He’s not my boy," he says, by rote, hoping that it’s convincing.

Jo cringes and tops off Nico’s wine glass, so probably not so convincing.

"That was awful," Pierre says, as he falls into the chair next to Nico’s, his knee bumping Nico’s as he reaches across to steal Nico’s glass.

"Your adoring fans don’t think so." Nico turns his phone so that Pierre can see the Facebook likes already piling up.

Pierre leans closer so he can see. His hair is soft and messy as it brushes against Nico’s skin. He smells like sweat and alcohol and his body is still shaking slightly with the adrenaline of being on stage.

Automatically, Nico places a steady hand on the back of Pierre’s neck.

"They actually like it." Pierre looks up at Nico, his eyes wide, his pupils wider than usual. He shakes his head, his chest shaking against Nico’s as he chuckles. "Our fans are easy to please."

"They know talent when they see it."

Pierre ducks his head, his lashes dark against his cheeks.

Nico is so fucked.

***

_Italy likes me_

_Italy knows how to keep its best customers happy_

"What’s so funny?"

Nico looks up to see Vasek smiling at him across the dinner table, a smirk twitching at the corner of his mouth. Nico’s stomach flops as he closes his phone and shoves it into his pocket, even as it beeps with a return text.

"Pierre’s eating all the pizza in Italy," Nico says in English, straightening his voice as he smooths out the wrinkles in his mind. "I feel bad for the tourists."

Nico promised himself he wouldn’t do this. He promised himself he wouldn’t mope around Rotterdam while Pierre lights it up in Bergamo. He promised himself that he’s have fun, try to win some tennis, and definitely not pine.

At the beginning of the year, Nico and Pierre sat down to reconcile their calendars. In a mutual agreement that had felt less mutual at the time, they had agreed to part for the month of February so that Pierre could play a series of singles challengers. 

Now, though, Nico is grateful for the time to get his head on straight.

Across the table, Vasek laughs, louder and longer than the joke deserved. He’s a good kid, older than Pierre but so much younger, and Nico’s pretty sure that the laugh is deferential. The attention, though, is nice.

Nico deserves it, after a year on the road with Pierre, who spends more time teasing him than he does learning from him.

Nico has things to teach, and Vasek is like a tennis sponge.

***

They win. A lot. Vasek follows his every call on court, never talking back or second-guessing. He doesn’t know where Nico’s going before he gets there, like Pierre does, and he doesn’t think for himself much, like Pierre does way too often, but he’s smart and fast and his weaknesses compliment Nico’s strengths.

They race to the championship and then they win that, too.

Vasek drops his racquet on the ground to raise his hands high over his head, turning a wide grin on Nico. And then his arms are around Nico’s back, bouncing them both ecstatically, and it feels good to win. It’s been six months since Nico’s felt a trophy in his arms, and if he’d still rather Pierre be at his side, a trophy is a trophy.

Besides, Vasek’s a good kid. Nico doesn’t mind sharing this with him.

Vasek, though, has other definitions of sharing.

They’re a couple of bottles of wine in before they head to a Dutch club to, in Vasek’s words, "celebrate in style." Nico gets that. He has style, whatever Pierre says. And he feels good, loose, comfortable in his skin in that way only a big win can make him. He doesn’t even think about pressing into it when Vasek puts a sweaty hand on the small of his back. Vasek’s breath is humid on Nico’s ear as he leans past him to call for the bartender.

"Two bourbons," Vasek glances at Nico. Nico shifts against him, not sure what he’s looking for. He must find it, though, cause he throws Nico an exaggerated wink before adding, "and shots all around."

The bar erupts in cheers and, Nico figures, it’s this good will that causes them all to turn a blind eye as Vasek downs his shot and pulls Nico onto the dance floor. His fingers are damp with condensation. Nico shivers when Vasek slides his hand under Nico’s shirt, brushing his thumbs against Nico’s skin as he pulls their hips together.

"I figure you’re a good dancer." Vasek drops his voice under the bass beat. "What with the way you move around the court."

Nico feels high on the music and the victory, and he’s pretty sure he’s more bourbon than himself. He teases back, "I have some moves," before he can think twice about it.

"Show me."

Nico slides a knee between Vasek’s and arches his hips into Vasek’s hands. Vasek’s cheeks flush under the florescent lights, his eyes wide and dark and a little red. Nico never backs down from a challenge and, besides, it’s been a long time since anyone’s looked at him like that.

Not like he hangs the sun and the moon or whatever poetry is this 2016’s flavor-of-the-month. Not like Nico is someone Vasek can make a home in. Not like Vasek even wants a home. Like, maybe, Vasek can’t even wait for a bed, none-the-less a home.

So Nico lets himself be pulled closer. Their knees bumps with the grace of a week on the court together, and Nico wraps his fingers around Vasek’s biceps. Vasek’s a little taller than him, so Nico flexes his toes as Vasek dips his neck.

He tastes like wine and tequila and bourbon, although Nico’s certain he tastes the same. He’s solid, his chest broad under Nico’s wandering hands, and Nico can feel every dip and tuck as Vasek moans, just a little, into Nico’s mouth. It’s not enough to lose himself in, but it’s enough.

Vasek pulls away just long enough to ask, "wanna get out of here?," before he starts brushing damp, musky kisses along Nico’s neck.

"Yeah," Nico breathes, "yeah, that’d be good."

Vasek’s grin is wide enough to fill his face as he turns, grabbing Nico’s hands and pulling him clumsily through the crowd.

They stumble out of the crowd and onto the sidewalk before Nico realizes that his pocket is buzzing. "Hey, just a minute," he calls, pulling out of Vasek’s grip so he can fish his phone out of his pocket. He has four missed calls and his heart thuds. "I’ve gotta- I’ve just gotta make a call. Grab a taxi?"

"Yeah," Vasek turns to the road, holding up his hand for a cab. He doesn’t watch as Nico walks away.

"Nico!" Pierre answers on the first ring. "You’re a hard guy to reach tonight."

He sounds bright and happy, and Nico has to hold onto the side of the building.

"Yeah, I was- busy, I-" He closes his eyes, feeling his heart pound against his ribcage and willing it to calm. "You called four times. I was worried."

"What? No, no, I’m great." Pierre yells. It’s loud where he is, laughter and music and the clank of glasses filtering through the phone. "I’m a champion."

Nico smiles, despite himself. "I know. I texted."

"Yeah." Pierre grins to himself, the small, shy way he does whenever Nico pays him a compliment. Nico can hear it in his voice.

Nico’s knees fail him and he slides down to the sidewalk, folding his knees against his chest and resting his cheek there. "How does it feel to be a singles champion?"

"Good," Pierre says automatically, then drops his voice. "A little blurry."

Nico chuckles. His chest presses painfully against his thighs. "That’s the alcohol. It’ll feel more real in the morning."

"Really?"

"No," Nico admits. "It never feels real."

Pierre chuckles. "I trust you, champion," his voice slips around the word, soft and beautiful, before he frowns. "You won a doubles title. Without me."

 _It’s not the same_. Nico doesn’t say anything.

"I don’t know that I like that much."

_I don’t like being away from you much, either._

"Nico? You there?"

Nico forces himself to smile. "Needed to make sure I’d get to number one before you, yeah?"

"Ass."

"Guilty as charged."

Pierre laughs but it’s drowned out by an increase of noise on his side of the phone. "Nico? I’ve, ahh, gotta go, but- Celebratory drinks when we get to California?" 

Nico scoffs. "Drinks? I expect a party."

Pierre laughs again. "Okay," he promises. "Good night, old man," and then he’s gone.

Nico stares at his phone, cold and dark, for three long breathes before he lifts himself off the filthy sidewalk.

Vasek’s waiting for him, leaning against the open taxi door and flirting with the valet guy. He pulls away, though, when he catches sight of Nico, grinning. "Thought I was gonna have to send out a search party. Ready?"

Nico shakes his head. "Sorry, I’ve- I’m pretty tired. Another time?"

Vasek looks from Nico, to his phone, and then back to Nico. "Yeah, yeah, no hard feelings, man. I get it."

"Thanks."

Vasek nods at the cab. "Still want a ride back to the hotel?"

"Yeah." Nico slides into the backseat.

Vasek falls in next to him. "If you ever change your mind, though-"

Nico chuckles. "You’ll be the first guy I call."

***

Pierre arrives in Palm Springs a full day before Nico. He’s already in the hotel, strumming through an almost-unrecognizable rendition of _Shake it Off_ , when Nico opens the door to their suite.

He stops in the doorway, shifting his bags so he can grab his phone out of his back pocket. He takes a pictures, uploads it to Instagram with a "Great to be home ;) #TennisInTheDessert" caption. 

"You’re terrible," he says, when he’s done. 

"Nico." The guitar slips out of Pierre’s lap and he scrambles to catch it, his shorts falling low on his hips as he trips over a throw pillow.

Nico can’t look away from the pale strip of skin.

He thinks of Vasek’s hands on hips.

He thinks of his hands on Pierre’s hips.

Nico stops the recording. "I see that championship was a fluke, ehh?"

Pierre flushes. Nico can see it all the way down to that slip on his hip. Nico wishes he’d pull his pants up.

"Why? 'Cause I’m so graceful?" He deadpans.

"I play on the same court with you," Nico argues. "I don’t need you to drop a guitar to know how ungraceful you are."

"Pot, kettle." Pierre raises an eyebrow. "First to fall into the net has to buy dinner?" 

"I pay for dinner all the time," Nico accuses. Then he thinks about his birthday, and about Pierre’s birthday, just a few days away. "I have a better idea. "First to fall into the net has to sing karaoke."

Pierre laughs, holding out his hand.

Nico shakes it.

***

"This place is ridiculous," Jo says, dropping a tray of frothy, neon-colored drinks onto the table.

They have little umbrellas in them and Nico takes his out, sucking his pina colada off the end of the stick. "When in California."

"Be Californian," Pierre finishes for him, as if it wasn’t strongly implied. 

"We’re in the desert." Jo frowns at his drink, a bright pink swirled through with blue. "Famous for scorpions and figs."

"And I don’t want to eat either of those. So," Pierre holds up his drink, grin so wide that Nico isn’t sure where his mouth ends and his face begins, "beach drinks."

"I don’t know," Richard frowns thoughtfully. "I hear those fig drinks are good."

"Ew, no." Nico wraps an arm around Pierre’s shoulder. "Besides, it’s Pierre’s birthday. What Pierre wants, Pierre gets."

"Thank you."

"After he admits that he’s the most ungraceful guy in this room, of course, and fulfills the bet he owes."

"Really?" Pierre wines, breath warm and inching into buzzed against Nico’s ear. "Tonight? But it’s my birthday."

"If you don’t live up to the bets you make, what are the children going to think of you?" Nico asks, wistfully.

"The children can go-" Pierre stops, shakes his head, and settles for a much more banal, and much funnier, deadpan, "I hate you."

The table erupts in laughter. Nico pinches Pierre’s side until he stops glaring.

"Okay, okay," Pierre holds up his hands, his drink dripping condensation down his wrist. His skin is pale where his sweatband usually sits, and Nico has to bite his lip from reaching out and pulling it towards him to kiss along his tan line. Pierre glares at him, completely unaware of how depraved Nico’s thoughts are. "But if I die of embarrassment, you’ll have to win our match tomorrow all on your own."

"That’s a cross I’m willing to bear."

"It’s a big cross."

Nico tilts his head, forcing a thoughtful frown. "Not that big."

Pierre rolls his eyes, his elbow digging painfully into Nico’s ribs, right in that spot that pulls and strains when Nico serves. "Doud and Nenad are formidable opponents."

Nico tips his head back to finish his drink. As he drops it to the table, he catches Pierre staring, and raises an eyebrow. "I don’t much want to talk about tennis right now. Stop stalling."

Pierre rolls his eyes, big and exaggerated. He flushes, down his neck, under the collar of his t-shirt, even in that little strip of sun-deprived skin at his wrists. "Okay, okay. But you’re in charge of finding a karaoke bar in a respectable town like this."

Nico lets himself grin as widely as he’d like. "Done. The back moonlights as a karaoke bar."

Pierre stands, finishing his own drink in one, long pull, before clanging it back to the table. "I really hate you."

"Ahh, you say such sweet things to me." Nico wraps his arm right around Pierre, pulling him close as he leads the way into the back room and pushes him on stage. "Sing, nightingale."

"A puppet," Pierre mumbles under his breath. "I’m just a puppet for your games. I get now why you pulled me out of obscurity."

"I pulled you out of Tokyo. There’s a whole different kind of puppet there." Nico blushes, despite himself, and if Pierre hadn’t known it was meant to be lewd, he’s smart enough to pick it up between the lines of Nico’s flush.

Pierre takes too long to joke, "Happy Birthday to me," and then steels his eyes back to the book of songs.

Nico leaves him to it, weaving through the tables of other nervous karaoke singers to fall into a seat between Jo and Richard.

"If you want it," Jo says in English, holding up his hand, "you better put a ring on it."

Nico laughs. His chest aches. He keeps laughing, a little more hysterically.

"Don’t protest so much," Jo says, switching back to French and leaning close enough that no one can overhear them. "People will start thinking you don’t mean it."

Nico sobers.

"Unless you really do want to put a ring on it." Jo shrugs, leaning back in his chair, a new, full drink in his hand. "In which case, do it soon. Because we-" He waves his hand to encompass the rest of the French delegation spread out around their table. "- are tired of this awkward dance you two have going on."

Nico forces himself to say, "I’m a great dancer," although not as jokingly as he intended.

Jo snorts. "Not at this. At this you’re just sad."

"Sad. Awkward. My ego is getting a pounding tonight."

"Seriously, though." Jo tips his chair forward, leaning close. "The kid worships you. You obviously adore him. Just put us all out of our misery and take him home already. It’s his birthday. It’s the least you can do."

"Wo- worship?" Nico looks from Jo to the rest of the table. Gaël is raising his 'you’re an idiot' eyebrow. Richard is nodding knowingly with each of Jo’s words. Nico feels hot, the room suddenly small and stuffy, and he pushes back from the table.

He doesn’t stop until he’s in the bathroom. It’s not like he didn’t know where his own feeling led. If Australia hadn’t been enough of a hint, then Rotterdam sure as hell had been. But, knowing it deep inside, where he can tuck it behind he’s so young and I want to win more Slams and he can’t possibly want, is much different than having it out in the open for everyone to see. No, for everyone to parrot it back at him like it’s the most obvious thing in the world, like Nico’s been broadcasting it all for months. And if Jo and Richard and Gaël know, there’s no possibility that Pierre doesn’t know.

Nico drops his head into the sink, dripping cool water down his neck.

He shivers, but at least the world is starting to feel a little less stifling.

He's done scarier things than this before. He's a Grand Slam champion. He stared John Isner's serve down for over 11 hours. And if Pierre wasn't okay with it, he would have been gone months ago. At the very least, Nico can apologize for his behavior. At the most, he can confess, carefully and with a lot of tack, and they'll both have a good laugh.

Before he loses the courage, he wipes off his neck, and heads back into the bar, making a beeline for their table.

And stops short. There's someone in his seat. He's tall, with broad shoulders and good posture, and he has an arm spread across Pierre's chair.

"I recognized you on stage," the guy is saying, his voice a good few octaves below Nico's. "I saw you play yesterday. You move the same way on court as you do on stage."

Even in the dim of the bar, Nico can see the way Pierre blushes. "I don’t get recognized, much. Doubles isn’t glamorous."

"Much more fun to watch though."

"I like to think so."

"Can I buy you a drink? Your friends tell me it's your Birthday. What do you like?"

Pierre leans closer. He's smiling. "Anything with coconut, and I'm good."

Nico turns and leaves, before either of them can see him.

***

It’s not fair - Nico knows it’s not fair - but it’s hard to look at Pierre when he arrives in the locker room the next morning. He’s dressed in yesterday’s clothes and he still smells like coconut and rum although his eyes are bright and focused and sober. He waves a quick "bonjour" before high-tailing it to the showers.

That’s the last thing they say to each other until Nico holds out his fist for their pre-match bump. Pierre’s skin feels clammy and pale, and Nico wants to grab his hand, pull him close, brush off all the remnants of Denis until Pierre is squarely his again.

Which is ridiculous. Pierre was never his. And one night doesn’t make him Denis’ either.

Nico just wishes he could stop picturing them together, skin moving against skin, pale and tan, blond and dark, Pierre’s muscles tightening-

Nico physically shakes his head and ignores the frown Pierre keeps throwing at him.

He ignores more than just Pierre’s throws on the court, and it shows. They’re off, missing passes and making calls too late or not at all. Once, Nico misses an easy overhead because he’s blinking into the sun rather than having to stare at Pierre’s ass. Twice, Nico trips over Pierre on his way to the net, because he had assumed Pierre was in the deuce court. He doesn’t know where Pierre is anymore, and he doesn’t know if he’s lost touch with Pierre, or if Pierre is moving differently.

In the end, it doesn’t matter. They sneak out of the semi-finals, 10-6 in the tiebreak, but it’s a near thing.

***

Nico doesn’t wait until Pierre’s out of the showers. The locker room is stifling. Doud and Nenad are down, of course they are. But they’re Nico’s friends, and his "great game" is no consolation for not capitalizing on what must have been a sorely obvious - to their opponents, to the crowd, to the TV commentators - off day for Nico and Pierre, number one seed aside.

Nico feels a little guilty about winning. He feels even guiltier as Pierre kicks off his shoes, clanging loudly against his locker, before he stalks into the showers without even a glare in Nico’s directions.

Nico leaves before he can make it worse.

He needs a walk. He needs to clear his head. He needs to pulls himself together before their final tomorrow, and being able to look at Pierre without imaging him wrapped around Denis’ dick would be a good start.

The thought pulls him up short, and he pauses in the shade of Jo’s hotel awning. 

Nico could use the distraction, and he’s pretty sure that Jo hasn’t left for Miami yet after the way he was drinking last night. He squeezes past the porters and rides the elevator up to Jo’s floor.

"No, no, go away." Jo holds his foot in the door so that Nico can’t pull it open any further. "I’m nursing a Djoker-sized whole in my ego. I don’t need any of your-" He waves a hand up Nico’s body. " - bad mojo."

Nico holds up his hands and promises, "No bad mojo, just a very angry stomach."

"Is that why you were tripping over yourself all afternoon?" Jo raises an eyebrow. "Or, should I say, tripping all over Pierre?"

Nico winces. "You watched?"

"It was on the TV, but I only watched the first few games. Almost died of second-hand embarrassment."

"Just imagine how I feel," Nico pushes, appealing to Jo’s deep-seated desire to ridicule him. "I could use a drink."

Jo raises a pained eyebrow around his headache.

"Best cure for a hangover."

"Whiskey is the worst hangover cure." 

"Jo."

"Nico." Jo sighs, crossing his arms across his chest and filling the doorway. "Go home, figure your shit out, and stop jerking that poor kid around."

"I’m not jerking him around. There’s no jerking going on here. Except, well, maybe Pierre did some jerking last night. I don’t wanna think about it."

Jo, the asshole that he is, laughs. "All this time I thought this was a lust thing. You’ve got it bad, don’t you?"

Nico nods his head, miserably. 

"Well, what are you telling me for? I don’t wanna fuck your pasty ass." Jo takes a step back inside. "Go home. Tell him."

"Yeah," Nico agrees, carefully, but the door is already closed.

***

The suite is dark when Nico gets back, but he follows the hallway until it opens up into a wide living room with floor-to-ceiling windows. They’re on the top floor, and the desert moon shines enough light into the room for Nico to make out Pierre hunched over on the couch, strumming an old French folk song on his guitar.

He stops when he hears Nico come in, but he doesn’t turn around. "Where have you-?" He breathes deep enough that Nico can see the fluttering of his shoulder blades above the back of the couch. "I got out of the showers and you were already gone. Enough to give a guy a complex." He chuckles, or tries to. It comes out a little rough and edgy.

Nico winces. "I went to commiserate with Jo." He leans his shoulder against the wall, crossing his arms protectively across his chest. "But he kicked me out. Too much of an embarrassment to be seen with him, I guess."

Finally, Pierre turns around, eyeing Nico with one of those loud, practiced smiles he uses with the press. Even that, though, keeps slipping as he tries to joke, "the French Federation is definitely going to kick us out now."

Nico snorts. This is almost easy. This is almost them. "They’re not exactly banging down our door now."

Pierre’s smile stops slipping. "Too bad. I was looking forward to Rio. I hear it’s my kind of town."

"Really? Is there an up-all-night, rum-drinking, neon-colored side of you I have yet to meet?" Nico says, forcing the words around the images in his brain, images of pina coladas dripping down Pierre’s wrist and Denis’s hand pressing on Pierre’s lower back.

"Well, no." Pierre agrees, flushing red enough for Nico to make it out in the moonlight. "I tried spontaneity. Turns out it’s not really my thing."

Nico snorts and forces the images away. "No shit."

"Hey." Pierre frowns. "No need to make me sound so boring."

"Never boring," Nico says, quickly, too quickly. "Come on, you could never be boring."

Pierre drops his chin, but Nico can see his shy smile in the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes. "Flattery will get you anywhere."

"If only." Nico snorts, then replays Pierre’s words and freezes. "Pierre, when you said that spontaneity doesn’t- Are you okay? Did he hurt you?"

"What? Did I play so horrendously today that you’re questioning my fitness level?" Pierre tires to joke, before reading the temperature in Nico’s spine and scrambling off the couch and stopping a foot or so from Nico. "No, Nico, no. He didn’t hurt me." He laughs, self-deprecating, flush still crawling down his neck and into his collar. "He didn’t even touch me. I slept on the couch. It was embarrassing."

"Oh." Nico lets out a breath that has been screwing itself higher and tighter into his chest for almost twenty-four hours now. 

"Yeah," Pierre agrees with a small shrugs. "It was the most embarrassing night of my life, actually. I don’t know what I was thinking."

Nico doesn’t want to know. He doesn’t need any more images in his head, but, he asks, "What happened?"

"Nothing. Just- I’ve never, with a man, you know? With tennis- it just never seemed important before."

"And now?"

"Now, maybe, it’s a little important? I don’t know." Pierre shrugs, looking down at his Nikes.

"He’s an idiot," Nico’s voice catches on the breath still untwisting itself deep inside his chest. "He had you and he let you go. Just because of a little inexperience? I knew he was stupid the moment I saw him, but, this is a whole other level of stupidity."

Pierre’s back straightens, and he meets Nico’s eyes for the first time since he came in. "Who says he rejected me?"

"I-" Nico opens his mouth. Then closes it again. He must look like a goldfish, which, he figures, would be just about right, given the distinct levels of lower brain function he’s feeling right about now.

"Denis isn’t the only idiot." Pierre folds is arms across his chest. His shoulders fold inwards and he looks more vulnerable than he has in the entire year he’s been cataloguing Pierre’s body language. "He’s not even the biggest."

"Pierre-" Nico swallows, choking on something terrifying and a little bit, hopefully, giddy. "I don’t want to get this wrong."

"You’ve been getting it wrong for months, why stop now?" Pierre jokes with a bravado he betrays when he looks up at Nico through dark, fluttering eyelashes. "There’s nothing you can do to fuck this up. I’m a sure thing."

Nico raises his hand, pausing for a long, careful minute as he fights with himself, before running a shaking thumb under those eyelashes. Pierre’s skin is warm and smooth and he immediately leans into the touch. Nico can’t help but groan. "You are the most extraordinary man I have ever met. I can’t believe I let you walk away yesterday. I really am an idiot."

"Yeah," Pierre agrees, smiling under Nico’s hand. "You’d go a long way in making up for it, though, if you’d just kiss me already."

Nico chuckles, leaning in. "Pushy."

"I know what I want," Pierre corrects, tipping his head further into Nico’s thumb.

"Nothing wrong with that." Nico whispers against Pierre’s lips, before he closes his eyes and kisses him.

For a long, desperate moment, Nico tries to catalogue his senses:

Pierre tastes like adrenaline and toothpaste and he smells like sunscreen. 

The skin on his arms and neck is chilled from the air conditioning, but when Nico slips his hands under the hem of Pierre’s shirt, his stomach is warm. 

Pierre whines into Nico’s mouth, voice quiet and rough, uncontrolled, like it is when he sings. 

His abdominal muscles bunch and pull under Nico’s fingers, and he arches forward, his whole body swaying towards Nico, trusting Nico to catch him.

And then Nico stops cataloguing and allows himself to sink into it. Pierre is all around him and Nico gives up trying to untangle the smell of Pierre’s fingers in his hair and the taste of Pierre’s moans in his mouth and the feel of Pierre’s aftershave against his nose.

It’s too much. Nico’s been dreaming about this for weeks- months, really, if he’s honest with himself and, standing in the entryway of their hotel suite with Pierre scrambling gracelessly at the waistband of his sweats, Nico can’t remember why he ever thought honesty wasn’t the best policy. His mother would be ashamed of him.

Nico shivers, pushing thoughts of his mother out of his head, and Pierre pulls back. Nico whines, following Pierre with his mouth, dropping wet, insistent kisses down the arch of his neck.

Pierre laughs. "Bed?" He offers. "Not that I mind showing off my manly willpower by not going soft in the knees, mind you, but I don’t know how much longer that’s gonna last."

Nico chuckles against Pierre’s skin, but he does wrap his fingers around Pierre’s hips and start walking them backwards. "Can’t have you embarrassing yourself like that. You’d never be able to live it down."

Pierre arches an eyebrow, looking stern even while he’s grinning dimples into his cheeks. "Oh, and I suppose if I just step away," he illustrates, taking a larger step back than Nico was anticipating, "you’ll be able to stand all on your own?"

"Hey." Nico complains, reaching out and grasping Pierre’s hips again, taking an equally large step to meet him. "Let’s not find out."

"Knew it," Pierre crows, raising his arms in triumph.

Nico takes the opportunity to pull Pierre’s shirt over his head, before dropping his head to Pierre’s collarbone to kiss a deep, purple mark into his skin.

Pierre’s cry of triumph hitches and Nico grins.

"Forget the bed," Pierre barely breathes. "The bed’s, like, twenty feet away. Don’t know what I was thinking."

"Couch?" Nico offers.

Pierre’s eyes light up, and he wraps his fingers in the collar of Nico’s shirt, pulling him further into the living room. "See, I always knew wisdom came with age."

"Give me a few minutes," Nico growls, pushing at Pierre’s shoulders so he falls back onto the couch, "and I’ll show you what age brings."

Nico slips his index fingers into Pierre’s waistband and pulls. Pierre arches his back, letting his eyes slip closed as Nico drops Pierre’s shorts and briefs to the floor. "Give me your best."

Pierre’s skin is a contrast of gold and pale, deep, stark lines on his biceps and above his knees. He’s been slowly building muscle over the last few months, and where Nico is all length and sinew, Pierre has filled out. He looks strong, flexible, "Beautiful," Nico murmurs.

Pierre blushes, and this time it doesn’t stop under Pierre’s collar. Nico follows it all the way down Pierre’s chest, to the thatch of dark curls between his legs. "Flatterer," Pierre accuses.

"If it gets me what I want," Nico winks.

"I already told you," Pierre says in exasperation, raising his right leg to hook over Nico’s hip and pull him down. "I’m a sure thing." 

Nico catches himself on the back of the couch, hovering over Pierre’s body so he can lower himself gently to kiss Pierre again. If Nico thought his senses were overloaded before, it was nothing compared to the feel of Pierre’s skin, brushing against him from head to toe.

"I’ve wanted this for so long," Nico whispers, once his lungs force him to pull up. "You have no idea."

Pierre twists his thigh so he can raise his knee off the couch, pressing it between Nico’s legs to push against the bulge in his sweats. "I have some idea."

"Fuck." Nico drops his head, catching his breath in long, loud gasps against Pierre’s chest. "Can I-? I want- Please, Pierre."

"Sentences. Not your strong suit." Pierre arches his hips, almost hard enough to puck Nico off, and brushes the length of his own erection against the cotton of Nico’s pants. "You promised to show me your mad skills, old man. Get to it."

Nico reaches for Pierre’s hips again, pinning him to the couch with as much of his strength as he dares use, as he sits back on his knees between Pierre’s spread thighs. "Was their something in particular you’d like schooling on, young Padawan?"

Pierre’s eyes widen. "You said you never watched Star Wars," he accuses.

Nico shrugs. "You said it was good. I tried it."

"And?"

"And," Nico draws out, running his index finger up the inside of Nico’s calf, "do you want a movie review? I’d be happy to oblige, only, I figure there are better uses for my mouth."

Pierre’s calf twitches. "You’re a smart guy, take your best guess."

Nico beds his head so he can follow the path of his finger with his mouth.

"Only," Pierre breathes, ragged and hitched, as he pushes against Nico’s hands, trying to urge him on, "this is just a delay. I expect a full film review-."

Nico spends extra attention at the pale, soft skin at the back of Pierre’s knee and Pierre groans, his stomach rippling under Nico’s hands.

"-when you’re done," Pierre continues valiantly.

Nico continues his journey, kissing along the strong muscles of Pierre’s thighs, stopping when he reaches the top.

"Or whenever," Pierre finishes, his voice high as a tightrope. "I’m not picky on the time, as long as it’s _after_ you-"

"Oh shut up." Nico rolls his eyes genially, releasing one of Pierre’s hips so he can wrap his fingers around the base of Pierre’s cock, and swallows as much as he can.

Pierre cries out, his hips bucking against Nico’s hand, his dick dripping on Nico’s tongue.

Nico rises up long enough to nod in approval at Pierre’s cry. "That’s better," he says, before licking at Pierre’s tip and dropping his head again.

It’s been a long time since he’s done this, and even longer since he’s done this with another player. There are parts that are familiar - the angles of Pierre’s body, the warmth and stretch of Pierre’s skin. There are even more parts that are unfamiliar - the control Pierre has over his muscles, the vulnerability of lying between Pierre’s thighs, knowing how easily Pierre could crush him if he wasn’t holding himself back. Nico doesn’t know why he’s let himself go so long without this.

But then Pierre wraps his fingers in Nico’s hair with a careful, easy tug. Nico doesn’t lift up, but he does shift his eyes so he can look up the planes of Pierre’s body.

Pierre lifts himself onto his elbows, his eyes shining bright in the moonlight, his skin flushed and shimmering with sweat. "This isn’t gonna last much longer, if you keep that up."

Nico shrugs, hitching his own hips so that he can ease his need with a little friction against the arm of the couch.

Pierre groans, and he falls back to the cushions, frustration and arousal written into every inch of Pierre’s body.

Nico recognizes it, it’s the same way Pierre holds all the tension in his muscles in the moments before a big match and, suddenly, Nico remembers why it’s been so long. This isn’t about sex, this is about Pierre. About the way he knows Pierre, about the way he’s been learning to read Pierre for months, about the way their bodies are so attuned to each other, in this even better than they are on court.

His body meets Pierre’s halfway, without even thinking. Pierre strains against Nico’s hold on him; Nico sinks another inch onto Pierre’s cock. Pierre’s thighs bunch and shake around Nico’s ears; Nico pulls up just long enough to wet his middle finger, before dropping his head again. Pierre moans Nico’s name; Nico drags the finger under Pierre’s balls, down, down, until he circles the tight muscles below.

"Okay?" He asks, because he has to, because this is Pierre’s first time, not because he thinks Pierre will say no.

Pierre doesn’t answer in words. He drops his foot do the ground beside the couch, opening himself further and arching into Nico.

Nico’s fingers slips past the first ring of muscles, and they both cry out.

Nico sucks in a breath, tightening his cheeks around the Pierre’s tip, offering him the same wet heat that he’s feeling in Pierre’s body. Pierre arches into it, letting his hips move, slightly, in a slow, shallow rhythm against Nico’s lips.

Nico matches it, curling his finger each time he pushes a little further into Pierre’s body until he finds the firm bump of Pierre’s prostate.

Pierre cries out a string of unintelligible words, unbelievably filthy. Nico’s entire body burns, and he pushes his hips, again, into the couch.

"Fuck, Nico." Pierre’s voice is wet and his fingers are painful in Nico’s hair. It’s good, a quick, sharp stab of pain that Nico can focus on to keep himself from coming before Pierre does.

It’s not going to work for long, though, so he curls his finger again, unerringly finding Pierre’s prostate and brushing the pad of his finger in circles across it.

Pierre’s knees shakes, his back arches off the couch, and he grits out a warning seconds before he comes.

Nico swallows around him, pumping with his fist to draw out Pierre’s orgasm until he sags, gasping for breath, into the couch.

"Hey." Pierre tugs at Nico’s hair, then untangles his fingers.

Nico pulls off, pressing a wet kiss to Pierre’s thigh before pulling himself up to press similarly wet kisses to Pierre’s slack mouth. "Hey," he whispers back.

"That-" Pierre arches his back, stretching and popping his muscles. His knee brushes against Nico’s sweats, and Nico curses. "Was the most incredible- Don’t know why I waited so long."

"You were waiting for me," Nico closes his eyes, trying to joke as if he wasn’t struggling to hold back his own orgasm with each brush and flex of Pierre’s body. "You never were one for compromise."

"No," Pierre whispers, a lot more serious than Nico was going for. "I’m not."

Pierre pushes his hand under the hem of Nico’s shirt, trailing his fingers up Nico’s side before pushing them into Nico’s sweats.

"I’m pretty sure I’ve been waiting for you all my life." Pierre twists his wrist, wrapping his fingers around Nico’s length.

Nico keens, spreading his knees and barely holding himself from crushing Pierre’s chest.

Pierre grins against Nico’s ear. "You have a lot to live up to. Think you can handle it?"

"Go a little faster, and I’ll be able to handle anything," Nico promises, his voice rough and raw from use.

Pierre hears it, and he groans, arching his hips into Nico’s. He’s softening, but it’s still a lot, more, really, than Nico can handle. He’s teetering on the edge, and, when Pierre tightens his grip and pumps faster, that’s all it takes.

He takes a moment to catch his breath, his muscles shaking with the effort of holding his body wait. Finally, he tips himself over, spreading out along the back of the couch and pulling Pierre close. "After a little sleep, I can handle anything," he promises.

Pierre snorts. 

***

As off as they were yesterday, Nico’s never felt as attuned to anyone as he does to Pierre now. It’s as if Nico sucked down some sort of tracker alongside Pierre’s dick, and when he mentions it to Pierre, Pierre winks and says, "guess I need to try that tonight, then," in a stadium full of 16,000 fans.

If Nico can just survive this, they’re no chance they’ll lose.

They win, 6-3, 7-6(5).

At the net, Vasek pulls him into a tight, friendly hug. "I’m happy for you," he whispers, winking at Pierre.

Nico’s still flushing when he holds up the trophy, Pierre strong and perfect at his shoulder.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and kudos are like air and water, so please leave them. Or come chat with me on Tumblr - my inbox is open at any and all times! 
> 
> [Tumblr link will be added once authors are revealed]


End file.
